Arkansas Blog

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN GUILTY OF LOOKING AT OTHERS YOUR OWN AGE AND THINKING, 'SURELY I CAN'T LOOK THAT OLD? WELL, YOU'LL LOVE THIS ONE.

" MY NAME IS ALICE SMITH AND I WAS SITTING IN THE WAITING ROOM FOR MY FIRST
APPOINTMENT WITH A NEW DENTIST. I NOTICED HIS DDS DIPLOMA, WHICH BORE HIS FULL NAME.

SUDDENLY, I REMEMBERED A TALL, HANDSOME, DARK-HAIRED BOY WITH THAT SAME NAME HAD BEEN IN MY HIGH SCHOOL CLASS SOME 50-ODD YEARS AGO. COULD HE BE THE SAME GUY THAT I HAD A SECRET CRUSH ON, WAY BACK THEN?

UPON SEEING HIM, HOWEVER, I QUICKLY DISCARDED ANY SUCH THOUGHT.

THIS BALDING, GRAY-HAIRED MAN WITH THE DEEPLY LINED FACE WAS WAY TOO OLD TO HAVE BEEN MY CLASSMATE.

AFTER HE EXAMINED MY TEETH, I ASKED HIM IF HE HAD ATTENDED WEST HIGH SCHOOL.

"YES. YES, I DID. I'M A TEASIPPER," HE GLEAMED WITH PRIDE.

"WHEN DID YOU GRADUATE?" I ASKED.

HE ANSWERED , "IN 1955. WHY DO YOU ASK?"

"YOU WERE IN MY CLASS!", I EXCLAIMED.

HE LOOKED AT ME CLOSELY, AND THEN THAT UGLY, OLD, BALD, WRINKLED, FAT BUTT, GRAY-HAIRED, DECREPIT SON-OF-A-GUN ASKED, "WHAT DID YOU TEACH?"

Max:
BWC offers much more insight into the uniqueness of having awareness of the self experiencing continuous renewal at any age! Youth have become more tribal as their absorption into the technology and media hype. It sure wasn't funny experiencing the pharmaceutical bag of the psychiatrist nor trying to connect one's thoughts for academic work, but when one is trying to explain the structure inherent to the gift of life, what can one do? And what can one do if one is wanting to show the "secret formula" behind the meaning of "Going Hog Wild!" Does the New York Times have anything over the Arkansas Times?

So, what else is new? Older men taking up with younger women? It's historical. Start with the Bible. By the way, check out the biblical account of how they determined if elderly King David was still alive or not.

"Power makes you attractive; it even makes women love old men." ...Joseph Joubert, 1842

"Power is the great aphrodisiac."...H. Kissinger, 1971

Uhm, isn't it obvious that mid-life crisis is completely created and imagined? In fact, I always thought the definition of a midlife crisis is just where some dude is bored/disillusioned with his life and looking for something exciting...

RIGHT. In the best-ever send-up of the vaunted M-lC: Kenny Mayne's 8-9 y.o. daughter, on his "dancing with that hot chick on Dancing With the Stars:" Why can't MY dad get his hair permed, or buy a convertible or something, like a normal dad in M-lC?

I think midlife crisis is God's way of making sure lawyers are always with us. It's a mercy plan that puts shaky marriages out of their misery, allowing 2 older people one more chance to get it right before they die. A man's midlife crisis is often the springboard younger women need to maximize their fledgling power and chart a true course to the top of their local Junior League. Midlife crisis is as important to America's economic growth as planned obsolescence. Without it they'd be no Zales, or Corvettes or Rogaine or Viagra. New house sales would plummet.

I can tell ya from personal experience that not all guys in the middle of a midlife crisis go after younger women, so that's a myth. And for the lucky ones, nibbling the grass on the other side of the fence sometimes makes you realize how fantastic the grass is back in your own yard. They got pink ribbons for breast cancer survivors, shouldn't there be a ribbon for couples who've survived midlife crisis?

A mid-life crisis! Yes, that's what it was.

Ravel's Bolero has just ended on my radio. ... My thoughts have been on a day long ago. ... Ravel's unforgettable Bolero.

I had this mid-life crisis at the age of 19.

During the postwar period, I worked in a graphic design and photography production studio. Photographers, designers, printers, marketing agents, copywriters, artists, and models -- extremely charming models -- hung around the studio every day.

A dashing ne'er-do-well fellow who resembled Errol Flynn, but with no particular talent (and no job) hung around drinking coffee with the bosses, ogling the girls. He hung around to keep a certain femme fatale model happy. He wasn't paid to do it -- he just hung around looking dashing. She hung all over him and batted her eyes.

Her résumé listed previous experiences as a photographer's model in Paris. But here she was -- hanging out every day in our studio: An alluring and sensuous charmer whose past could be read in her feminine charms, and they surpassed anything I had ever seen in the movies.

The big bosses of Art, Photography, Radio, and Printing Production despaired at seeing this slinking enchantress throw herself at a playboy who gloated and lunched on her delectable charms.

They worked up a scheme to put this enchanting feminine vampire into my arms, hoping that she would forget the ne'er-do-well playboy! Still wet behind the ears at 19 years of age, I suspected nothing. Why me? Of all the eligible bachelors in the studio, why me?

I was about to have my mid-life crisis.

The radio station on the floor above piped its programing, day and night, directly into our studio. The station manager had agreed to play Ravel's Bolero when cued.

The scheme was put in play. By 3 o'clock in the afternoon, everybody had been sent out on assignments and wouldn't return until evening. Except me -- I was alone. Two of the bosses came by to say that they had a meeting in a few minutes and wouldn't be back for two hours, just keep the door locked, the lights low, and the curtains closed. They hung the "closed" sign at the front door.

Just then, the Femme Fatale showed up and asked for her playboy. They told her to wait here -- they would meet with her man and send him to pick her up in 2 hours. Lies and subterfuge, but Ecce! -- still wet behind the ears -- suspected nothing.

Ecce! and the Femme Fatale were alone behind the locked door. The room filled with Aphrodite's seductive perfume. Then Bolero -- right on cue from upstairs -- began its constant rhythm, quietly at first, gradually building to its climax. The Femme was running her fingers through Ecce!'s crewcut hair, slowly drying the dampness behind both ears.

Oh Fickle Fortune! Just the night before I had proposed marriage to my future Mrs. Ecce! and had been accepted by the one known as She of the Ava Gardner Countenance. Now what was I to do? I was drowning in this delicious torture! Bolero ... perfume ... sensuous curves ... memories of Ava Gardner ... sweet talk ... mid-life crisis ... confusion ... confusion ... confusion. Every thought hammered into me by Ravel's Bolero.

I heard the final cascading crescendo of Bolero. The music ended. But Ravel's rhythm drives on.

The next day, the big bosses came in -- what the hell were they grinning about? -- to ask (breathlessly) about Ecce!'s tete-a-tete with the sensuous Femme Fatale. Their cigarettes landed on the floor when I told them that I was going to marry She of the Ava Gardner Countenance.

And the Femme Fatale married her playboy.

And I survived my mid-life crisis at the age of 19.

I'm telling ya Ecce! I didn't know who to pull for in this story....why oh why can't one have their cake and eat it too? But in the end....can you beat Ava Gardner? I think not.

Ecce, I hope zelda never reads your account......she swoons enough now as it is.